


Consult

by Lex_Munro



Series: Stories From the Fateverse [26]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sci-fi, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Dimension-Hopping, Gen, M/M, Technobabble, alternate Doctor(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:04:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lex_Munro/pseuds/Lex_Munro
Summary: Four heads are better than one, even if they bicker and three of them have technically committed heinous crimes against Time and causality.





	

**Author's Note:**

> against his better judgment, the Savant goes to see the Old Man.
> 
>  **warnings:**   Fateverse (dimension-hoppy sci-fi), mad scientist(s).  language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s***).
> 
>  **pairing:**   some background Doctor(s)/Jack Harkness.
> 
>  **timeline:**   perhaps a day or two after [A Quick Jaunt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/238816/chapters/22257026).
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   marvel and the BBC own all recognizable characters (except Jack Carter, who belongs to NBC/Universal).
> 
>  **notes:**   1) it was Ashildr/Lady Me who gave the Founder the idea of keeping a diary, because holy cow thousands of years of memories.  2) in Robot of Sherwood (episode 803 of New Who), Clara asks Robin Hood why he’s sad.  when he retorts “why do you think me sad?” she replies that he laughs too much.  3) you may recall that the Senior Warder at the Null-Resonance Detention Facility is a version of Eureka’s Sheriff Jack Carter.  4) "never eat pears--they’re too squishy, and they always make your chin wet.”  5) the Doctor nicknamed ‘biceps with the crooked teeth’ would be played by Tom Hardy.  6) rampant Doctor Who references, too many to point out here.  7) ‘looming’ is one of the processes by which Time Lords are born/made, and ‘relooming’ is one of the terms used to refer to the way Rassilon was resurrected to rule Gallifrey again; presumably it would be possible to recreate most Time Lords in a similar fashion.  8) EMF = electromagnetic frequency(ies).  9) TMS = timestream monitoring simulation.  10) i have no idea what a chronometric parsec is, but i’ve been assured that since the Founder has called photons a special case of chronitons/time particles, it would make sense to measure interdimensional distance with similar terms to what we use for light distance.  11) "flying the V” is the Brit equivalent of giving someone the finger (hold the hand with the index and middle finger extended in a V shape and the palm facing you).  12) “tinned” = “canned.”
> 
> p.s. i have misplaced any knack i once had for tagging, apparently.

**Consult**

 

When he first sentenced himself to life in the Null-Resonance Detention Facility, the Founder took to writing things down.

He got the idea…oh, ages ago.  Centuries.  Lifetimes upon lifetimes.

There is one crucial difference between him and the person who inspired him to write it all out:  she wrote to remember, while he writes to forget.

If he’s written it down, he has permission to forget.  It’s all there, brown ink on vellum, just in case.  In case it’s needed.  One of the Sherlocks down the way does it all mentally, locking up vaults inside his ‘mind palace’—it’s easier for Sherlock, of course, having only been alive for forty years before his incarceration.

Whereas the Founder…

The Doctors are a bit like clowns in that respect:  funny and terrifying at the same time.  They look like something they’re not (well, _sometimes_ they are), like harmless humans with disarming, _sad_ old smiles.  Scarves and velvet frock-coats and Robin Hood laughter.

He’s had so many faces, lived so many lives.  He’s seen the birth of his universe and its death.

He has filled (so far) eight hundred million rather generous pages with rather small script, and he’s only up to Cheeky Sand-Shoes.  There’s still another few centuries of him, and then there’s old Chinny who died at Christmas, and the Independent State of Eyebrows…

Or no.  No, those belonged to someone else, some other Doctor.

Occasionally, his prolonged exposure to the Untempered Schism leaves him with an overload of details.  Resonant echoes.  Things that never happened to him that could have happened but at the same time couldn’t.

All the more reason to chronicle his own life, the better to sort memories from visions.  The memories are over and done, useless except as parables, but the visions help him keep a hand on the rudder.

_And Martha, being clever, simply refilled my glass.  When we tired of silly pink drinks and singing flowers, we_

“Sir.”

The Founder pauses.  He looks at the door of his cell.

The Senior Warder looks back at him apologetically.  “I hate to interrupt when you’re writing, but we just got a Priority Order.”

The Founder marks his place and reaches for his jumper (a gift from Sarah Jane when his re-used sixth face nearly ran out into the snow without a coat).  “From the Sysadmin?”

“No, ah…from the Savant, apparently?”  Jack looks confused and uncomfortable.  “I don’t exactly—I didn’t know he could do that.”

“All department heads can, and, evidently, so can the nearest thing the Theory department has to a department head.”

“It won’t be cold; you’re just coming to one of the nullres conference rooms.”

“Always bring a jumper, Mister Carter,” the Founder says with sage wisdom (painstakingly gleaned from seeing all of Time, even the sideways bits where he never stole a TARDIS or where he stayed on Gallifrey after the Time War).  “And never eat pears.”

In the conference room, two more Doctors are waiting:  a weary, white-haired Doctor of War and one of the faces the Founder never personally wore (Biceps with the Crooked Teeth; they haven’t got one in min-sec, so he must have been thawed for this).

“And that’s why they’re going to put you in a big black box,” Biceps is saying.  “That’s why whole religious orders set out to kill you.  You and your _meddling_.  You know, you make quite a good Dalek, Doctor.”

“Oh, what would you know,” scoffs the old man.  “I imagine a strapping young lad like you has already forgotten the Time War.”

“If I can remember the Cloister War, what makes you think—”

“Gentlemen,” Jack says.  “The Savant will be arriving any minute, and he’s not a pleasant person on a _good_ day, so it might be best to set things aside and stay on topic…”

“Meddling,” mutters Biceps.  “And where does that get you, eh?  Water on Mars, that’s where.”

“I haven’t even the faintest idea what you’re babbling about,” says War in a lofty tone.  “It’s all nonsense to me, being as our very presence here negates the possibility of my following your timeline.  Save it for Cableknit over there; he and self-flagellation are dear friends.  Do stop your verbal thrashing-about, hm?”

“I’ll show you thrashing, you murderous old—”

“Do you ever wonder why there are no Claras here?” the Founder asks.

War gives a bemused frown, but Biceps goes all pale and pinched.

“Martha and Mickey were too human for it.  So were the Ponds, and Danny, and Jo, and Alistair.  Sarah Jane could’ve ended up here, if not for that boring husband.  So many Jacks…Rivers, Jamies, Aces, Fitzes…even a couple of Donnas and a Rose.  Clara _could’ve_ done it.  She was an excellent Doctor once, after all.”

“Good at it, was she?” War muses.

“Goodness has nothing to do with it,” Biceps and the Founder chorus.

“Well, then I suppose I’m glad I got out when I did.”

“How many faces have you had, old man?” Biceps asks him with deep suspicion.

“Mine, or other people’s?” the Founder teases.

“Don’t be a twat.”

“Such language.  Fourteen faces.  Plus repeats.  You?”

“Eighteen.  And repeats.”

“And _I’m_ the abomination,” snorts War.

“No, Eyebrows in the Fridge is an abomination,” corrects the Founder.  “Bugs Bunny and I got our extra regenerations as gifts and fair compensation, but The Tyrant stole his.  That’s why he’s called ‘The Tyrant.’”

“Meddle once and you’ll want to meddle more,” cautions Biceps.  “Poke a hole in time to save a girl because you’re afraid you can’t do without her, and then it doesn’t seem like such a stretch to poke another and save a woman with an unhealthy attachment to hallucinogenic lipstick, and then who’d even know if you destroyed New York City to keep your family whole?  Who’d notice if you blew open the walls of reality to have a cheeky little blonde on your arm?  If you killed Davros before he’d ever dreamt of the Daleks?  If you destroyed Rassilon’s imprint so that he could never be resurrected, never look into the Untempered Schism, never send a message of four maddening drumbeats?  Where does it end, Doctor?”

“It would’ve ended with the Moment,” War says, calm and unrepentant.  “I hope I never live long enough to get as greedy as you; I’d have been quite satisfied with just that.  I could’ve endured a great many losses after destroying every last trace of the Time War.”

“No, Doctor,” the Founder tells him.  “You would have tried, and it would have been an admirable effort, but you would eventually have failed.  If you had used the Moment, it would have killed you, and your next regeneration would have been born in anger.  You would have been a ruthless thing, pragmatic and without compassion.  You would have been Rassilon reborn, reshaping Time as you saw fit.  All those wonderful, fallible people you could have loved in another life would instead be swept aside or cast down, punished at the first step that faltered.  Like children being beaten for wetting the bed.”

Rheumy eyes focus on withered hands.  “I suppose we’re all where we belong, then,” War murmurs.

“He’s coming.  You should sit down.”

The moment they’re all three placidly seated, the Savant strides through the door.

“Hello, Doctors,” he says.  “I need you to take a look at some data and answer some questions about it.”

“No,” says Biceps.

The Savant is not impressed.  “The fuck you say?”

“Well, it’s a bit unfair, innit?  I mean, what do we get out of it?  Chuckles here is up for commutation with good behaviour in a century, but the Geezer’s got a life sentence and I’m not even eligible for parole for another three hundred years.”

“You’re talking to a guy who erases universes for a living,” snorts the Savant.  “I kill smiling little kids for the good of the Timestream as a whole, so if you think you’re gonna get a single _proton_ of sympathy from me, you can go right back on ice to contemplate your dead wife.  Haven’t you heard?  There are no Oswalds here:  nobody’s coming to save you.”

“We have questions of our own,” Biceps says unperturbedly.

“Let’s take turns,” suggests the Founder.

The Savant looks at them, one at a time—possibly gauging their intentions or their knowledge.  “You three stooges get to take your turn together, then.”

“Excellent, us first,” says Biceps.

“Thrill me.”

“What do you want from us?”

“I need you to take a look at some _data_ and answer some _questions_ about it,” the Savant drawls pedantically.  “My turn:  you had a chance to go back to the Library and retrieve River’s imprint for relooming, so why didn’t you?”

“Hadn’t thought of an excuse to get into the looming chambers before my arrest.  Why these three Doctors in particular?”

The Savant points to the Founder, then Biceps, then War.  “He’s wise, you’re clever, he has no patience for bullshit.”  He sets down a portable projector, and data begins scrolling past.

Brainwaves.  Resonance.  Time travel.  Sort of like inter-dimensional telepathy.

“Do you understand what you’re looking at?”

“Yes,” they all answer together.

“Mostly,” War admits.  “Can I have visitors?”

“Yes.”

“Be specific, dammit!”

The Savant snorts.  “Then _you_ should’ve been more specific.  We know several ways to trigger an outbound transmission, but we don’t know what triggers the return trip—any ideas?”

“Yes,” War replies snidely.  “Can I see my family?”

“If they want to see you, sure.  Do you think EMF could have something to do with it, since it’s being relayed through some half-baked electronics?”

“Possible,” says Biceps.  “Could—”

“How far away is the destination?” the Founder interrupts.  “When calculated in terms of timeline co-similarity proximity, not when calculated by TMS software.”

The Savant pauses, takes a pencil out of his pocket, and starts writing on the table.  “Three chronometric parsecs, less than one chronometric parsec, five point eight chronometric parsecs.  At first glance, it suggests a correlation to the subjective duration of the jump.  Transmission lag, perhaps.  Could the return be automatic?”

“Dunno, sample size is insufficient.  Can the three of us examine the subject?”

“That’s a negative, Ghost Rider.”

“Why?” the three Doctors ask together.

“Wait your turn, assholes.  Why wouldn’t the transmission cause damage to the receiving brains, even though it’s powerful enough to give the subject full control?”

“Insufficient data,” says Biceps.

“Why can’t we examine the subject?” asks War.  “We would learn so much more.”

“I’d have to have my fucking _brain_ amputated to think it was a good idea to set loose three Doctors guilty of crimes against the Timestream.”

“Rather uncalled for,” snorts War as Biceps flies the V at the Savant.

The Founder watches the Savant.  He can’t read the man’s thoughts, of course—even at the height of his telepathic abilities, it would be like trying to read a thousand-page book where each word changed just before he read it.

But he’s had thousands of years to learn how to read people without the use of telepathy.

“You don’t like doctors,” he decides.  “Not just Doctors with a capital letter…actual medical-degree-bearing doctors of any sort.  That must be hard luck on your Proctor.”

A muscle moves in the Savant’s jaw.  He breaks the Founder’s gaze, scoops up his projector.  “We’re done here,” he mutters, and sweeps toward the door.

“Don’t worry,” replies the Founder.  “We keep better than tinned tomatoes.”

After the briefest pause, the man is gone.

“He’ll be back,” snorts War.

“Might not be us, next time,” says Biceps.

War scoffs.  “What’s he going to do?  Catch one of us in the wild?”

The Founder smiles a little.  “Wouldn’t that be a funny chapter in my books?”

 

**.End.**


End file.
